I'd Walk Through Hell
by GoGirl212
Summary: Sometimes the thing you are battling doesn't carry a sword. Entry for the August Fete de Mousquetaires challenge "Heat". There are lots of terrific stories every month. Check out the forum for a list and then please vote on your favorites - or write one of your own!
1. Sun Struck

**A/N: This story is in response to the prompt "Heat" for the August Fete de Mousquetaires challenge. Check out the forum for a list of all of the terrific stories, and please vote for your three favorites! And then, join the next monthly contest! It's a lot of fun and the prompts are great to get you started on writing.**

 **Special thanks to Issai for offering me the premise for this one and encouraging it along. All the mistakes are mine :)**

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 **Chapter 1**

It's not as if an ambush was outside the realm of possibility. In fact, they had expected it considering the status of their prisoner and loss of two couriers at the Spanish border in the last fortnight. But once they had deposited the Spanish General Castillo at the _Bastille de Pyrénées_ no one anticipated an ambush on their way home. Porthos and the two recruits, Marcus and Giraud, had headed back to Toulouse with letters from the Governor to deliver to the garrison in the city, while Athos and Aramis made for Auch, with letters for the Comte. D'Artagnan was given leave to detour to Lupiac, as he had not been back to Gascony in several years. They were all to meet at Toulouse on the second day, although Porthos and the young recruits were due to arrive first. Porthos couldn't deny he was looking forward to a night of card playing without the supervision of his sometimes over-protective companions. But their ambushers had other plans.

At first, Porthos thought the attackers were desperate farmers, their proximity to the border with Spain and the four years of war having created enough homeless, hungry men sadly common on the roads in the south of France. But as he and the other two Musketeers fought in close quarters he knew these men were too well armed to be common criminals, they were probably deserters and dangerous for their experience and training.

Porthos spared a glance to his left as his fist connected with the face of one of the attackers. Giraud seemed to be holding his own in hand to hand combat with a man wielding a long knife, but Marcus was in trouble. Blood ran down his pale face and his parries against the swordsman attacking him were becoming desperate. Porthos knew he had to get to him quickly. The man he punched had crumpled in a heap at Porthos's feet, but his place had been taken by two more. Not for the first time in this skirmish Porthos regretted that Aramis was not there to watch his back.

Porthos's size alone generally made him a target for multiple attacks at once. If faced with an odd number of attackers, it was always two or three trying to work together to take Porthos down. It wasn't much of a problem when Aramis or Athos was there to pick off one or two, but with the younger soldiers he was traveling with today, he knew they did not have the battle sense to attune to the well-being of other soldiers while engaged in fighting for their own lives. Porthos was on his own, and his comrades needed his help.

He decided to go with strength over finesse. With a terrifying roar he ran headlong into the two attackers charging him. He leaned low, arms outstretched to catch both men around their torsos and bring them down. On the ground, he knew he could overpower them both. He also knew that his charge was leaving him vulnerable to their blades and wasn't surprised to feel the sting of steel cutting through his side and his outstretched arm as he crashed into the men. He was counting on his leathers to keep the wounds from being too deep, and adrenaline to keep the pain from being an issue. He'd deal with the aftermath later, like he always did.

Porthos's tactic paid off as the force of him slamming the men to the ground knocked the wind from their lungs and the weapons from their hands. Kneeling on one of them, Porthos pummeled the other into oblivion. He grabbed hold of the man he was on top of, drawing his small dagger and slicing him across the throat. Blood burst from the grim gash, bathing Porthos is red, warm stickiness as he rotated to see the rest of the battle. He saw Marcus fall, and the man attacking him raise his blade for a killing stroke. With a prayer to whatever God kept Aramis's aim true, he threw his dagger, impaling the man between the shoulder blades. The attacker dropped his sword and started scrambling to try to pull the blade from his back.

"Get up!" Porthos bellowed, "Marcus!" but Marcus was either too stunned or too wounded to comply. It was Giraud who took the lunge to slice the man across his torso. The final attacker fell wordlessly to the ground.

Porthos pushed himself up to his feet and surveyed the damage. Six dead men littered the blood soaked ground. One horse was gone and another was dead from a bullet at the outset of the skirmish. Marcus looked on the verge of passing out and Giraud was cradling his right arm and favoring his left leg. Porthos could feel the fiery throb starting in his side, and the sharp sting along his forearm. Blood dripped from his cuff. They were all drenched in sweat, the hot sun bearing down mercilessly on the dry, brown field. It wasn't noon yet, and the heat and humidity were already nearly unbearable. They needed shelter badly but nothing but sun burned fields flanked them as far as the eye could see. Porthos grunted to himself. This was bad.

Porthos didn't know how long he had walked along the road, leading the horse with the two wounded men. He was worried about more attacks, but more worried that they would get lost in these rolling, barren fields if he strayed too far off course. He knew they could not be too far from Toulouse, but he was pretty sure that Marcus could not manage much longer even if it was just over the next hill. Already he was unconscious, the only thing keeping in the saddle was Giraud, trying to stay seated himself with one good arm to steady them both.

Sweat poured down Porthos's face and stung his eyes. His hat was on Giraud's head and his bandana covered his own damp locks. It was not a good barrier to the sun, but its tails covered his neck at least. The wound at his side was throbbing, but there was little he could do other than keep putting one foot in front of the other. The road crested a small hill and there, just below them it forked in two directions. But nestled in the crook of the road was the slanted roof of a crumbling cattle shelter. Porthos glanced back at his companions on the horse. He had found their home for the night.

He got the men off the horse and settled under the overhang of the remains of the roof. It was tight, but at least they were in the shade. He stripped their provisions from the horse and pulled the saddle from its back. The horse stood listlessly by the one remaining wall of the cattle shelter, too tired to even forage, a sign the beast was overheated. Their only mount was spent until it could be rested and watered properly.

Under the shade of the caved in roof, Porthos and Giraud got to the business of tending wounds. They started with Marcus first, stripping him of his leathers and using the water in their canteens to clean the cuts and abrasions peppering his body. The worst of it was a gash to his head, probably the reason he was now unconscious. They ended up stripping off his shirt too and using it for bandages. Giraud had a broken arm and they rigged a splint as best they could and bound the arm to his side with the remains of his shirt. His leg was badly sliced and with nothing to stitch with all they could do was wrap it tightly in what was left of the cloth they had. Giraud reminded Porthos that he too was injured, but by then their meager supplies had been exhausted. All Porthos could do was pad the wound on his side with his other bandana and then pull the straps of his leather doublet tight around his torso. The pressure of the doublet would stop the bleeding and help support what he knew were bruised ribs, but it felt like he had locked himself in an oven. They had half a canteen of water left, and they passed it among themselves until it was empty, having roused Marcus enough to get some down him too.

They lay quietly after that, side by side, shifting position only as the sun moved and trying to stay in the shade as much as possible. They couldn't really rest in the oppressive heat, but eventually the sun slipped below the horizon and worst of the heat abated. The night was sticky and humid with not even a breeze but it was better than the unrelenting sun. It was hotter now under their shelter than in the open air, so Porthos moved Marcus out from under the roof and made him as comfortable as he could against the saddle. He gave Giraud the bedroll and helped him to stretch out. Porthos knew he should sleep too, but his soldier's instinct told him they should keep watch. He positioned himself against the edge of the wall and tried to stay awake as long as he could.


	2. Sun Burned

**Chapter 2**

By the time D'Artagnan had arrived in Toulouse, Athos and Aramis had already provisioned them for a ride the next morning. With no sign of Porthos or the other two musketeers, they knew something had happened. The three of them set out at first light, carrying extra water, medical supplies, and armed to the teeth. They had no indication of where the men might be, they simply took the most direct route from Toulouse toward the south, backtracking the most likely route Porthos would have taken. Their progress was slow as they stopped to search the few farmsteads they came across. All were deserted and showed no sign of anyone's recent passage. They were spread out along the road, searching for signs of anyone having gone off the road, when Aramis called out.

"Athos!" Aramis's voice rang clear from ahead "D'Artagnan!" He was standing in his stirrups, waving them both forward. D'Artagnan watched Athos wheel his horse around and kick her up to a trot and he did the same. As soon as Aramis saw they were following, he too kicked up his horse, taking the road over the small hill and out of sight. D'Artagnan caught up with Athos as they crested the hill, not knowing what to expect. All he could see was Aramis's horse running ahead and after exchanging a quick glance with Athos, they followed him. Not sure of what the sharp-eyed marksman had seen, D'Artagnan drew his pistol, noticing that his mentor had done the same. As they got closer, they could see what had caught Aramis's attention, a white horse standing near a hillock at the crossroads at the bottom of the hill.

By the time Athos and D'Artagnan had reached the bottom of the hill, Aramis was already off his horse and hidden somewhere behind the hillock. As they reigned up next to Aramis's mount, D'Artagnan realized the hillock was actually the ruins of a cattle shelter, field grass now gaining a hold over the remains of the caved in roof, the stone walls crumbled in on three sides. Dismounting, D'Artagnan could see Aramis kneeling over two bodies huddled beneath the sliver of shade provided by the roof of the shelter. There wasn't enough room in there for all of them, so D'Artagnan and Athos crouched at the opening and looked in.

The two prone men were Marcus and Giraud. D'Artagnan's breath hitched when he realized Porthos was not there. Athos too tensed immediately, and turned his head slightly to catch D'Artagnan's eye. D'Artagnan knew the danger in that look, and the worry. Athos put a hand to D'Artagnan's shoulder and gave it a small squeeze, the small gesture expressing worry, comfort, reassurance all at the same time. D'Artagnan nodded and exhaled, pushing down the panic trying to take hold in his stomach. D'Artagnan steadied his breathing, watching Aramis calmly unwrap bloody bandages from Marcus and inspect the wounds on his torso.

"Take a look around," Athos said quietly, "I'll stay here and help Aramis." D'Artagnan doubted Aramis needed any help, but just then Aramis turned to them.

"Athos, could you get me the brandy from my saddlebags?" Aramis asked softly, his voice smooth and controlled. But D'Artagnan could see a wildness in his eyes that belied his gentle tones. His face was schooled in a practiced bedside manner, but he couldn't' hide the worry and fear in his eyes. D'Artagnan realized what Athos had meant, it wasn't Athos's medical knowledge that Aramis needed, he needed the steadying presence of Athos at his side, just as D'Artagnan had a moment ago. Sometimes his three older friends seemed so confident and controlled that D'Artagnan forgot that they felt worry and fear for each other as deeply as he did. Seeing Aramis's vulnerability somehow gave D'Artagnan the last push he needed to put his own worry at bay.

Athos and D'Artagnan both stood, Athos moving to the saddle bags and D'Artagnan heading around the back of the shelter. There was an easy trail to follow where footsteps had smashed down the dried grass of the field. D'Artagnan followed them a short distance and smelled foul water before he came upon the remains of a well. There had been boards placed across the top, but their splintered remnants now only covered half the surface. The other broken parts laid scattered around the edge of the opening. With no axe, someone must have used one of the rocks lying about to smash the boards. D'Artagnan could only speculate about how much strength and determination that must have taken, only to find the water fouled. There were few men who could have done that, especially in this oppressive heat. Hi heart lifted as he realized Porthos must have been with the other two men at some point. But he also must have been becoming desperate to find water for them.

The trail in the grass continued back past the well. D'Artagnan followed, wondering where Porthos might have headed next. It was to a copse of trees in the middle of the field. It would have been a likely place to find water, but with the drought, the small pond that should have nurtured those trees was dry. The path through the grass continued though, heading toward a further set of trees on the horizon. D'Artagnan raised an eyebrow, wondering how far Porthos may have strayed in search of water. That was a long way off for a man without a horse.

Unexpectedly, the path through the grass gave was to a road. D'Artagnan found himself standing between two fields, the road heading east/west and possibly crossing the north/south route that would lead to Toulouse. D'Artagnan inspected the grass on the other side of the road, but it didn't look as if anything had disturbed it. D'Artagnan had no way of knowing if Porthos had set off down this road, or gone back the way he had come, returning to the men in the shelter before setting off in another direction. But the one thing he did know was that Porthos was alive and wandering somewhere in these hot, dry fields trying to find help for his friends.

D'Artagnan retuned back to the cattle shelter, but stopped to check the white horse. He was warm, his coat dry, and he stood with his head hanging. The horse badly needed water. D'Artagnan knew that they had brought extra, but wasn't sure anyone else would appreciate it being used on a horse. But there was no way he could let the animal suffer. He returned to his own mount and retrieved one of the extra canteens. He had no trough, so squatted down next to the listless animal and poured some water into his cupped hand and held it below the horse's mouth. With a little encouragement, the animal figured out that there was water there. D'Artagnan couldn't help but smile as the pink tongue searched his palm for water as quickly as he could fill it up. He slowly gave the horse most of the canteen that way, then took one of the square cloths they had cut for bandages and soaked it in water. He stood and pulled the wet cloth across the horse's withers, trying to draw some heat from the animal. He continued on that way until there was no more water, essentially currying the horse with the wet rag. He wished he could do more, but he dared not give over another canteen. The horse seemed more alert by the time he was done, raising his head, and nickering softly toward the other mounts that had been tied nearby.

D'Artagnan returned to his own horse, placing the empty canteen next to the two full ones remaining. He leaned his head against the flank of his mount. The sun was unrelenting and he felt a headache blooming in his forehead. The weather was dangerous like this. He had farmed near here for most of his life and knew the ebb and flow of the seasons. Knew that in sun like this man and beast alike should be indoors. But they had no choice, and at least they had brought water with them. They were using it sparingly, but use it they must. D'Artagnan slipped a second canteen from his horse and took a long sip. Then he untied the red bandana from around his neck, wetted it down, and replaced it. Even though the water was sun-warmed, it felt cooler against his hot skin. Water jug in hand, D'Artagnan made his way round the horses ready to give his report to Athos.

The two men stood just outside the shelter, having a heated discussion in hushed tones. Aramis was in his shirtsleeves, the damp fabric clinging to his skin. His dark curls were slick with sweat as well and he ran a cloth across his face, mopping the sweat from his eyes. D'Artagnan thought he looked worn, more weary than the hour of field surgery should have deserved. He knew it was the heat exacting a price from all of them. D'Artagnan extended the water jug to Aramis and was met with a sigh of relief as his brother took it from him and took a long swallow. D'Artagnan lightly place his hand on Aramis's shoulder, sensing instinctually that Aramis needed a sign of his support.

"How are they?" he asked as Aramis passed the canteen to Athos.

"It's not good," Aramis said gravely, "Marcus has not regained consciousness since we have been here and Giraud is the better side of delirious. I stitched them up, but the lack of water and the conditions here . . .," Aramis trailed off, waving a hand at the futileness of their situation. D'Artagnan give Aramis's shoulder a small squeeze but the marksman just looked down and shook his head.

"What of Porthos?' D'Artagnan asked, "Did they say what happened."

"They were ambushed, yesterday morning" Athos said, his trademark emotional detachment leaving his voice controlled and even, "Giraud is sure that Porthos lead them here and dressed the wounds, but that is about all he is sure of." Athos looked up and met D'Artagnan's gaze. D'Artagnan could see the cold fury in his mentor's eyes, the rigid line of his tense jaw as he used every muscle to keep himself in check. Athos was worried, and angry, and D'Artagnan knew he was not going to be pleased with what he had to say next.

"I think Porthos is trying to find water," D'Artagnan said, "I found a fouled well out back, the covering smashed in with a rock the way only Porthos can break something," That statement got a small snort from Aramis and he raised his head to join the conversation, eager for something that could help them find their missing comrade. "He walked toward a copse of trees after that and then that field is edged by a road. No telling which way he went from there, but he must be looking for help."

"Wonderful," Aramis muttered, "That idiot is wandering around the south of France instead of staying put, where we could find him. I'm not sure if his wounds will kill him first or this damned heat," Aramis's put his hands on his hips and bit his tongue, clearly fighting back his emotions.

"We don't know that he's wounded," Athos said matter-of-factly. Aramis reacted like a powder keg to a match.

"Don't know!" he yelled at Athos, "Whose blood do you think this is?" he gestured wildly to the area just outside the shelter where the one wall was still intact. D'Artagnan noticed for the first time the discoloration by the base of the wall. The dry ground had leached away the moisture, but the dark patch could easily be the remnants of a pool of blood. "They fought at least half a dozen men. There is no circumstance in which Porthos escaped without injury!"

"Giraud is not in his right mind," impossibly, Athos was even calmer in the face of Aramis's tirade. "The only thing we know for sure is that we have two wounded men here that need your help. You have to stay. D'Artagnan will ride to Toulouse for assistance. I'll continue the search." Athos's tone was definitive and authoritative but he was breathing heavily as if these words caused him great effort to say. He brooked no quarrel when he commanded his men and no one would question orders given in that tone. No one but Aramis. The marksman stepped close to Athos, barely holding his rage in check.

"I have done all I can for these men," Aramis said quietly from behind clenched teeth, "Now let me go find the one that I can still help." Athos shook his head, nearly panting as he tried to catch his breath to respond to Aramis. He took an unsteady step back and put a hand to his head as if trying to clear his thoughts. He stood this way a moment and then suddenly, Athos was tilting backwards. Aramis grabbed his arm immediately, preventing Athos from toppling over and D'Artagnan quickly moved to his back, guiding them both to the ground as Athos's legs went limp. Athos was lifeless in D'Artagnan's arms, his head hanging to his chest.

"It's the heat," Aramis said as he started unbuckling Athos's leathers, "I told him to take this off." D'Artagnan shifted to hold Athos against his chest with one arm while the other snaked around and lifted his mentor's head to lie back on his shoulder. Athos's face was slick with sweat and he looked pale despite the browning the sun had given them all in the last few days. He picked up Athos's hat from the ground beside him and used it to shade their faces, waving it to create a slight breeze in the still air. Aramis had gotten the doublet open and now was unlacing Athos's shirt. Nimble as always, Aramis had managed to keep hold of the canteen as well as Athos when he had started to faint. Aramis loosened the blue cloth from around his own neck and soaked it in water, gently stroking it over Athos's bared chest much in the same way D'Artagnan had just cooled down the horse. Athos started to respond immediately, sighing and breathing heavily, his head shifting on D'Artagnan's shoulder as he searched for consciousness.

"Athos," Aramis called quietly, but urgently. He wetted the cloth again and gently wiped it across Athos's faced and behind his neck. "Athos," he said again, lightly slapping the man on the cheek. He was rewarded when two blue opened to meet his brown ones. D'Artagnan felt something shift in Athos's body, then Aramis suddenly pulled Athos forward and to the side positioning him on his hands and knees between them as the swordsman started retching. There was not much but bile and water to come up, but his stomach heaved even after it was empty. The spasms finally over, Aramis lifted Athos slightly and pushed him back into D'Artagnan's arms. Athos breathed heavily through his nose, but did not lose consciousness again.

"Here, my friend," Aramis was gentle and soothing, wiping Athos's face with the damp cloth and letting it linger on his lips, which were likely desperate for moisture. "I know you are thirsty, but wait a moment or it will only come back up again." Athos nodded, he understood. Aramis put his hand with the cloth behind Athos's neck and pressed it there. Athos let his head tip forward and he reached one hand up to lay on top of Aramis's. D'Artagnan felt his heart melt a little at the gesture. Just like that, all their arguing was forgotten. Aramis raised his glance to D'Artagnan.

"It's sun sickness," Aramis said quietly, "If I know Athos at all, he has probably not been drinking enough water. Probably hasn't even touched his canteen," Athos gave a little grunt of derision but Aramis just squeezed the back of his neck affectionately. "We need to get him to some shade, and then we can try to get some water into him."

"I'm not unconscious," Athos huffed.

"I know," Aramis answered, a small smile tugging at his lips, "You are much easier to manage when you are." D'Artagnan did smile at that as he and Aramis exchanged a knowing glance. They managed to get Athos to his feet, but he leaned heavily on Aramis as they walked him to the shelter. There was not much room for three men, but D'Artagnan wiggled in first, and then Aramis turned Athos around and lowered him to the ground and into D'Artagnan's arms. Athos was weak and uncoordinated, but not helpless and D'Artagnan was able to easily help him slip backwards until he was sitting up beneath the sheltering room, the two wounded musketeers lying beside him. While he was inside D'Artagnan spared a moment to look further at the interior of the shelter.

"I think I can get a section of this roof up higher," he called out to Aramis, "It would give them more room and probably more air could get in. It wouldn't be so stifling in here." D'Artagnan poked around and found one of the fallen support poles. He checked the thatching on the roof and it seemed secure enough. He positioned the support and started to slowly push up, and a rain of dirt and dust showered down on all of them.

"Wait! Stop!" Aramis called out, "Let me protect the wounds from the dirt." D'Artagnan watched Aramis run back to the horses and pull something from his saddle. He came back, unfurling a long blue cloth and draping it over both of the prone men.

"Is that your cloak?" Athos asked, "It's blazing hot and you have your cloak?"

"You never know when you might need it," Aramis said smugly, tucking the edges over the faces of the wounded men. "Do you want to get under here?" he offered cheekily to Athos. Athos just grunted and pulled his hat down low, tucking his legs up and encircling them with his arms. Aramis slipped back out of the shelter and called out to D'Artagnan to proceed.

With the leverage of the support post, it did not require much strength for D'Artagnan to push up another portion of the fallen roof. He wedged the post into the ground, letting the roof itself give enough friction to hold it in place. It would come down again in the first storm, but they would be long gone from this place well before there was chance of wind or rain. With much more room, D'Artagnan could easily get to Athos's side, offering him the canteen while Aramis pulled the heavy cloak off of the wounded men and shook out the dirt.

"Can you manage some of this," D'Artagnan offered. Athos gave him the slightest of smiles as he took the bottle and tried a long swallow. "Easy, slow down," D'Artagnan placed his hand over Athos's and gently pulled the water away. "You have to take it in small sips." Athos closed his eyes and nodded, signs of strain finally showing on his usually unreadable face. D'Artagnan could feel the worry and frustration rolling off of his friend as strongly as the wave of heat emanating from his overtaxed body. They were all worried about Porthos, but now Athos's body was failing him and his frustration was palpable.

Aramis returned from his horse, his doublet already buckled and his sword belt around his hips. He crouched down by the entrance to the lean-to and peered in at Athos.

"Same plan," he said matter-of-factly to Athos, "But you stay put. Rest, stay in the shade, and keep drinking water. Keep Marcus and Giraud alive long enough for D'Artagnan to get back with help," Aramis turned his gaze to D'Artagnan, "Ride hard for Toulouse. It's only two hours away at most, and bring a wagon, fresh horses, and more water. The garrison there should have a physician, get him here." Aramis looked calm and focused, much more in control than he had been earlier. D'Artagnan marveled sometimes how his friends could take on any role, leader or follower, as the need demanded. With Athos unwell, Aramis slipped calmly into the leadership position without any hint of self-doubt.

Athos reached to take the canteen back from D'Artagnan. "I hate it when he gets like this," Athos muttered as he took the water jug, but he offered no arguments. "Which road will you take?" he said instead to Aramis, "When D'Artagnan returns, we will follow if you are not back."

Aramis let out a heavy sigh and bit his lip, considering the options. "Well he was not on the road north, to Toulouse, as we would have seen him on our way here," Aramis voiced his thoughts as he puzzled out the direction, "and I doubt he would have gone back the way he came. So that leave the east/west road that D'Artagnan found. But from that, I don't know. It's just a guess."

"The east road is more in the direction of Toulouse. In fact, there is a good chance it would have circled back up there eventually," D'Artagnan offered, "Although why wouldn't he have just kept north, on the road to Toulouse? Unless he thought someone was following him. Or he was just lost."

"Porthos being lost in the countryside is not a far-fetched idea," Aramis mused.

"He was looking for water," Athos said, his mind functioning better now that he was cooling off, "and felt he needed it more urgently than following the road north to find us. Go back to where D'Artagnan said he entered the road. Look for the most likely direction to find water – maybe there is a farmhouse you can see, or a stand of trees large enough to support a lake. That is the direction he would go." Athos spoke with surety, his logical mind something his companions had trusted with their lives on more than one occasion. "I don't think he intended to walk very far," Athos added.

"Why is that?" D'Artagnan asked.

"Because he was still wearing his leathers," Athos said succinctly, "but he left these behind," and Athos raised up Porthos's sword belt, blades all holstered. "He would never have left this if he planned to be gone for more than a few moments."


	3. Sun Soaked

**Chapter 3**

Aramis pulled up his horse and raised a hand to tug the brim of his hat as he carefully scanned the horizon again. The sun had reached its zenith and the heat of the day pressed on him. He squinted against the blazing light, but continued his slow review of the landscape without interruption. A small, frustrated sigh escaped through dry lips as he slowly swung down off his mount. He felt a line of sweat trickle down his back with the motion, adding to the growing dampness of his shirt trapped beneath his leathers.

Almost unconsciously, he loosened them again, as he looked next for trail sign. There were some straggly trees in the distance that could offer meager cover from the sun to someone needing shelter, but it was not likely that there would be water there. Nonetheless he scanned the ground for any indication that someone had gone off into the sun-burned fields. Seeing nothing, he bit his lip, worry adding more weight to his shoulders than even the oppressive heat of the day. He slipped one of his canteens from the saddle and took a long drink. The water was warm from the sun, but still felt good as it washed the dryness and road dust from his mouth. With a soldier's discipline Aramis forced himself to stop drinking even though his body craved more. He could easily have downed what remained, or better, splashed it over his head and the back of his neck, but he knew the water was precious and needed to last.

Aramis replaced the canteen next to the two full ones he was also carrying and moved to check his horse. She was breathing a little heavily, but her coat was damp from sweat and she showed no signs of serious overheating yet. He considered walking her for a bit, but dismissed it. He could walk her back if it came to it. Right now he needed the advantage of being on her back to keep scanning for possible farms or sheltering trees on the horizon. He gently ruffled her nose then pulled his hat from his head and ran his hand through sweat drenched hair. The sun poured down without mercy and he closed his eyes against the brightness while he used the edge of his sash to wipe the sweat from his face. He tugged his hat back into place, the brim pulled low to keep his face in shade. With a last glance around him, Aramis stepped around to the side of his horse and slowly mounted up. The heat was stealing his strength and he felt the need to conserve his energy, but it had not sapped his determination. Porthos was out there somewhere and he had to find him.

The road was essentially deserted. Aramis had not passed one soul on his slow western journey. This arid land should have been filled with golden grains, but the hot spring had given way to a parched summer and the crops withered in dry, cracked earth. Workers has abandoned the fields for jobs in the city and there was little reason to be out under this sun for those who had chosen to remain. Looking for one man in this wasteland of scorched earth was desperate, but really, what choice had they had? As Aramis carefully scanned the empty landscape for any sign of life, or suggestion of a possible shelter, he considered yet again if he had been right in heading this direction at all.

He and D'Artagnan had searched by the edge of the road and could find nothing that might suggest which direction Porthos had gone. D'Artagnan had argued for east again, knowing that Toulouse was slightly more in that general direction. Aramis knew it was logical, but he knew Porthos. Porthos was not so certain of this area, would not have stopped to think it out geographically. Aramis chose west, because in the morning, when Porthos was setting out, it would have put the sun at his back, not in his face. It was almost like flipping a coin, but at the time, Aramis felt confident that the odds were better making a choice about a man he knew almost as well as he knew himself. Now though, as the day wore on, he was feeling less sure. Even with the slow, careful pace he was taking, Aramis felt he was the point where he should have overtaken an exhausted, wounded man walking along the road. He must have missed something. Or Porthos had not been on this road at all.

Aramis stopped his horse again, putting a hand to his face and rubbing tired eyes. He refused to give up, but how much could one man, even that man, have endured? No water, no direction, wounded – the situation grew more hopeless as each minute passed. Aramis felt they were down to minutes now. He could not imagine anyone in the condition he suspected Porthos to be in to last this many hours into the day. He had to decide though – keep going in hopes that Porthos had gotten further than he thought possible, or go back and retrace his steps, hoping he found a sign that he missed the first time he passed.

The blaze of the sun was intense and the air shimmered in the distance with the force of the heat. Going forward suddenly seemed like walking toward a gateway to hell. Aramis felt a shadow pass over his heart, a despair so tangible he felt like claws were gripping his chest. Forward was only sorrow, was death. If he went forward, he would only find a corpse. Hope leached from his heart as sweat ran down his skin. The sadness of loss overwhelmed him so completely that he let out an audible gasp. It was not just Porthos's life, it was his own, and death ached instead his chest.

He would go back. Look for a sign he had missed. It was not likely, but not impossible

Aramis drew a deep breath, pushing back against the anguish in his heart. He had to choose but both options now ended in despair. He could not see a way out. He could not bear to find Porthos dead without Athos and D'Artagnan at his side. He was just not strong enough. Aramis hung his head and felt shame burn his cheeks. As if sensing his uncertainty, Aramis's horse danced beneath him, taking awkward side steps and circling in place, expressing her displeasure at his indecision. Aramis fought the reins a moment, tugging her and kicking her slightly forward to steady her. She spun a bit and eased up, facing away from the sun and toward the side of the road. And Aramis saw it.

It was the trail sign he had been looking for all along. A swath of crushed grass where someone had obviously headed of the road. Someone who cut a wide path through the burned, dried crops dying in the field. Aramis didn't know how he could not have seen it before, but here it was, and he felt the despair melt away as if it had never been. He nudged his mount forward, carefully following the depressed grasses. Aramis glanced up, wondering what would have lead someone off the road here. In the far distance he could see a line of trees, a deep thicket. If there was a lake, it would be there. A lake of enough size that there should still be water. Aramis might have risked it himself if he were desperate enough. But in the sun the distances were deceiving. It was much further away than it seemed. Aramis returned his attention to the field and finally, the sight he had both longed for and dreaded filled his gaze. On the ground before him was the still form of his dearest friend.

Aramis was off his horse in a swift, fluid motion, his sun-sapped strength replenished by the hope surging in his heart. Despite his frantic energy, Aramis slowed his motions once he was kneeling by beside Porthos. The big man was lying on his side, his back to the sun and Aramis, and curled slightly, with one arm wrapped around his torso. It looked like he had simply fallen here and did not rise again. Instinct and battle training took over and Aramis reached out a steady hand to feel for a pulse in Porthos's neck. He paused, holding his breath, waiting for too long he thought, but there! There it was, a light flutter beneath his fingertips. Porthos was alive and no matter how close to death he might be, Aramis was going to fight to pull him back from the brink. Determination replaced fear. Porthos would live.

Aramis was afraid to move Porthos yet, despite needing to check for wounds. He slipped his hands to his friend's face, feeling hot, dry skin. Porthos had stopped sweating. This was a very bad sign as it meant there was no moisture left in his body to help cool him. He was still wearing his full leathers, unbelievable in this heat, but Aramis considered he must have had a reason. Those needed to come off, and Porthos needed to get out of the sun. He was likely wounded somewhere too. Aramis cataloged the competing needs and with the experience of battle triage to help him, settled on a course of action.

Aramis returned to his mount and grabbed his canteens and medical bag. He moved to the other side of Porthos and knelt again, this time facing into the broiling sun. Aramis tugged the brim of his own hat lower so he could see. He wet a cloth from his medical bag and gently wiped his friend's face. He repeated this several times, hoping to cool him and begin to stir him to consciousness. But Porthos showed no sign of waking. He soaked the cloth in water again this time placing it between Porthos's lips hoping that even unconscious, he would respond to a need to drink. There was still no response, so Aramis next damped the cloth again, and squeezed it over Porthos's mouth, letting drops of water dribble on his check and fall on his tongue.

"C'mon," Aramis breathed, afraid even his voice might tip the scale between life and death, "You have to swallow." Aramis continued to let the water drops fall, rewetting the cloth a second and then a third time. Finally, he was rewarded was the smallest gesture – Porthos licked his lips. Aramis couldn't help himself but smile broadly. He couldn't have been more happy than if Porthos had sat up and started dealing cards. This was life, this was hope. "Alright, my friend," Aramis said softly, wetting the cloth again, "we can work with this." Aramis tried again with the drops of water and again was rewarded with the same reflex. Aramis knew this wasn't enough for nourishment, but it was the first step in bringing Porthos to consciousness and the ability to drink. Aramis continued to drop water slowly into Porthos's mouth, whispering encouragement for him to wake and swallow. Porthos gave no further indication of rousing to consciousness and Aramis eventually became aware that he was uncomfortably hot. He put down the cloth and stripped off his doublet completely. He would rather face an army in his shirtsleeves then spend one more minute encased in leather. He decided he needed to do the same for Porthos if he was to have any chance of cooling him off. And he had to get him into the shade.

There was no way Aramis could get the big man up on his horse while he was still unconscious, and it wasn't the wise thing to do without knowing the rest of Porthos's injuries. Without any shelter nearby, Aramis would have to create a sunblock over him until the others could find them. Returning to his horse, Aramis for the second time that day scorching hot day, pulled his blue cloak from its strappings. He unrolled it and then impaled his rapier in the ground by Porthos's head. He tied one corner of the cloak to the hilt. The opposite corner he stabbed to the ground with his dagger. There was one part of his sun shelter, now he needed to figure out the other side. His main gauche was the best he could do at the opposite end and then one of his saddle bags held down the last corner. It was narrow, but Porthos was in shade and Aramis could roll him on his back now.

Gently, with a hand on hip and shoulder, Aramis shifted Porthos. Aramis worked next to get him out of his clothes. He struggled to undo the leather belt strapped tightly over Porthos's thick doublet. He could not figure out why Porthos had insisted on wearing it in the heat, let alone why it was cinched so tightly. He finally released it and managed to pull open the doublet only to discover the blood soaked bandana Porthos had pressed to his side to stop the bleeding.

"Oh, my friend," Aramis sighed, "What have you done?" Carefully, he peeled away the bloody fabric to reveal a six-inch gash along the big man's side. It was inflamed and ragged, but the bleeding had indeed stopped. But perhaps the cure was not worth the price. Porthos had stopped himself from bleeding, but now it was the heat that was threatening to kill him. Aramis inspected the wound. It looked as if it had been cleaned, but it would need to be stitched. He needed to get Porthos out of his clothes first though. The heat was the more imminent danger. Aramis unlaced the sleeves from Porthos's doublet and managed to pull them off of his arms. This revealed more blood and Aramis found the deep cut on his arm as well. He pulled off Porthos's boots, then undid his leather breaches. Getting those off was no easy thing, but he managed it without resorting to slicing them open. The leather jerkin he left for last, first carefully rolling Porthos to his un-injured side to slip one arm out. Aramis was then able to pull most of it under Porthos's body and pull it out from under him on the other side. The jerkin easily slipped off of his arm and Aramis rolled it and placed it under Porthos's head. It was not the softest pillow, but it got his head up from the dirt and in less of a position to choke when Aramis tried again with the water.

Aramis soaked another cloth in water and again stroked his friend's chest and torso, carefully avoiding the wound in his side. He smoothed the damp cloth over Porthos's chest gently, noticing as he did the scars that crisscrossed his friend's body. He knew them well, too well perhaps, as his handiwork was part of the pattern of lines. So many of these wounds Aramis had sewn with his own hands. This man beneath his hands was so precious to him. Despite the swallows of the little drops of water, Aramis knew that Porthos's life danced on the end of a thread. He was a field medic and he knew that pulling any man back from the brink of death was more a matter of luck and prayer than any skill.

The first canteen was empty now. Aramis had two more left and no real sense of how long it would be until D'Artagnan and Athos could find them. It would take at least four hours for D'Artagnan to be back from Toulouse. Aramis was having difficulty keeping track of time. The day had been so long and his ride had been painstakingly slow. He couldn't figure the distance from the cattle shelter to their location. It was going to be a while, and Aramis was going to have to face this on his own, no matter the outcome. While a sigh, he stood and returned to his horse. He pulled the saddle from her to keep her cool, and then positioned it by Porthos's head. He tipped his friend's head forward and then lifted his shoulders from the ground so that he could slide him against the saddle in behind him.

With limited water left, Aramis knew it was a risk, but he tipped one of the canteens to let some water run over Porthos's head. It dripped through his scalp and onto his face. Aramis again wiped Porthos's face with a damp cloth, catching more of the water. He repeated this again, and then poured some over his chest. Porthos's skin was hot and dry but Aramis hoped the water would help to cool him faster now that he was stripped to his braes. He used almost half a canteen in this manner, slowly pouring water over Porthos's head and chest, and wiping him gently with damp cloths. It was heartbreaking to see Porthos so still. Nothing seemed to be working and the unrelenting sun in a cloudless sky was doing all it could to steal the life from his beloved friend.

"Porthos," Aramis said coarsely, "You have to wake up," and he stroked his friend's cheek and brow lightly, "Please, my friend, please" Aramis pleaded with his unconscious brother. He ran a hand through his friend's hair, gently rubbing the top of Porthos's head with one hand, while the other squeezed one of his hands tightly, hoping the physical contact would do what the water so far had not. "C'mon, now," Aramis encouraged, "Open your eyes. Listen to me," Aramis's voice grew urgent and demanding, "Open your eyes. Enough of this. You need to wake up. You need to drink. You need to come back," Aramis felt a lump rise in his throat, "I need you," he choked, and felt hot tears sting his weary eyes and slide warmly down his cheek. Aramis put a hand to his eyes and brushed away the tears. He had no time for this. No time to indulge in despair. To give in to it was to admit he had lost. Aramis squeezed his eyes shut, pressing his hand to his nose and trying, trying to push back the emotions that threatened to overwhelm him.

Porthos squeezed his hand.

It was slight, it was nothing – it was _everything_.

Aramis's eyes shot open to see Porthos looking up at him, eyes still half lidded but open. Open and focused. Aramis felt tears leave his eyes again, but this time they were brought forth in joy.

"Stubborn fool," Aramis said, brushing a hand over his friend's brow, "You really scared me."

Porthos's eyes fluttered in a long blink. He looked like he might want to speak but Aramis was shushing him before he could do more than sigh.

"It's alright, you're alright," Aramis reassured, "I need you to try and drink." Aramis again wet a cloth and dribbled water into his Porthos's mouth. This time, he was gifted with a full swallow. Porthos again licked his lips and sighed, moving his mouth as if he wanted to speak. "I know. I know. You are thirsty," Aramis soothed, "but we have to go slowly, very slowly. You've been too long without water." Aramis hated to see Porthos suffer, but knew that he could not just pour water down his mouth. He continued to wring the dripping cloth and watched Porthos weakly swallow it down.

Porthos's eyes opened wider and his breathing grew more steady and regular. Aramis poured the last of the water from the second canteen onto the cloth, but this time wiped Porthos's face, neck and chest. He seemed to rumble a sigh beneath Aramis's hands, and Aramis had to smile, feeling like suddenly he was tending a wounded bear.

"Let's try a little more," Aramis smiled encouragingly at his charge. He pulled the cork from the last canteen and put a hand behind Porthos's head. Gently he lifted his head and put the bottle to his lips. He poured an ever so small sip and then pulled the bottle away and watched Porthos swallow. There was no coughing and no retching, so Aramis tried again. At the third swallow he felt Porthos's hand flutter up to lay on his arm, reaching ineffectually for the water bottle.

"Relax," Aramis said, "Just let me do this. Your job is to swallow water and to keep it down. Yes?" Aramis looked for acknowledgement and Porthos mouthed the word _yes_ , his throat too parched to do little more than croak. Aramis gave him another cautious sip. "Whatever you do, you need to keep this down. I don't have enough water for you send it back up," he added with a smile. Aramis couldn't be sure, but it looked like Porthos tried to roll his eyes.


	4. Sun Kissed

**A/N: Finally the last chapter! Thank you so much for the kind reviews and encouragement. Please don't forget to read all of the great stories from the fete de mousquetaires challenge. You can find all of them listed in the forum.**

 **Special thanks to Issai for medical consultations, helpful suggestions, and the entire premise of this story. All mistakes are all mine.**

* * *

 **Chapter 4**

An unreckoned number of hours passed with Aramis helping Porthos to swallow small amounts of water and intermittently soaking cloths to lay across his hot skin. Porthos grew more responsive as the water revived him, but with no true relief from the oppressive heat, there was not much improvement in his overall condition. He was weak and uncoordinated and tended to drift in and out of sleep, but at least did not slip back into oblivious unconsciousness. When he was awake, he could speak, but had trouble forming words and his thoughts would drift. Aramis himself was starting to feel the ill effects of too much sun. Since finding Porthos he had not spared a drop of water for himself, reasoning that he was in far better condition to withstand the heat and that his companions would find them long before his situation truly became dangerous. But that did not mean he was comfortable.

With about half the canteen still left, Aramis decided he should see to Porthos's wounds before they were completely out of water. When he shared his intentions with Porthos, the big man was not pleased.

"Leave it," Porthos croaked, his throat and mouth still uncomfortably dry, "I'm good."

"You are not good," Aramis retorted as he sorted out needle, thread and bandages, "The moment we try to get you up, your side is going to split like a ripe melon." Porthos wrinkled his nose in disgust at Aramis's choice of phrase. "I've got to stitch that," Aramis said authoritatively, "But not the arm, how's that?" he offered in compromise, "That one I'll just bandage. It won't be so bad."

"You always say that," Porthos responded hoarsely, "But you're always the one with the needle."

Aramis chuckled and patted his friend reassuringly on his chest. "I'll be gentle," he answered, slinging Porthos his most languid bedroom gaze. Porthos made a disturbing guttural rasp that Aramis quickly realized was laughter. Aramis smiled at him as the laughter subsided. "Alright, I've got to clean it first. Ready?"

"No," Porthos answered, "But do it anyway."

Aramis took up the canteen, wetted a cloth and gently wiped the crusted blood from the wound. Porthos winced lightly, but bore this part well. The wound started to slowly bleed again as the loose scab washed away along with the dirt from being untended for so long. There was some slight infection, but Aramis hoped the fresh blood flow would help to clear it. The next part was even less agreeable. Aramis took up the brandy next, pouring a generous helping over the opening in Porthos's side. Porthos groaned loudly, taking deep breaths and trying to sit up, but Aramis pressed him back to the ground, a hand remaining on his chest until his movements subsided. Porthos's face looked drawn and Aramis stopped with the wound to wipe his face with a damp cloth.

"Ah, see that," Aramis said softly, "Not so bad. You are doing great." He smiled down at his prone friend. "In fact, this is a lot better than you usually manage. I should dehydrate you more often."

"Stop," Porthos said weakly, closing his eyes and trying to steady his breathing, "Not helping."

Aramis reached down and lifted Porthos's hand to place it over his chest so that his arm was out of the way. He gave a little squeeze and patted his arm, "Leave this here," Aramis said gently. "I can't give you any brandy. Just breathe." Porthos nodded his head, keeping his eyes closed. Aramis was not worried that Porthos would be much trouble as he was physically too weak to do much to disrupt his needlework. But Aramis knew that despite the many times Porthos had endured this, he was miserable and frightened each and every time. Aramis picked up the needle and thread and prepared to make the first stitch. "Here we go," he said so that Porthos would not be surprised, and deftly slipped the needle across the wound and drew the thread through quickly. Porthos moaned, but did not move, and Aramis continued quickly, but gently, to work his way along the six-inch gash. After several stitches Porthos started to pant.

"Stop," he breathed, "Can't . . . "

Aramis laid the needle on a cloth by Porthos's waist, and clasped Porthos's trembling hand. He put his other hand on Porthos's shoulder, waiting patiently for him to be ready. Eventually Porthos released Aramis's hand. Aramis wiped down Porthos's face again, gave him more water, and waited for a nod so that he knew Porthos was ready for him to begin again.

They went on like this, Aramis having to stop several times, until the wound was neatly sewn shut. To bandage it, Porthos had to sit up. Aramis knew this would be difficult given his friend's weakened state, but by using the saddle he could at least get him propped up enough to slip a bandage around his torso. That done, Aramis helped Porthos to a more comfortable position. He repositioned the sun shade as well, having already moved it a few times as the sun crawled along the sky.

Aramis looked toward the hot, white orb, slightly lower on the horizon but still many hours from setting. The shadows from the make-shift lean-to were slightly longer though, giving a little bit of shade for Aramis as well when he was pulled in closely. Aramis was grateful for the sliver of shade as he worked to clean and bandage the cut on Porthos's arm. It was deep, but a bandage would do. Aramis didn't want to put any more stress on Porthos just now. As it was, he was less coherent after the small ordeal he had just endured, finding it difficult to speak and too taxing to keep his eyes open for long. Aramis tied off the bandage and again placed Porthos's arm to gently rest across his chest. He reached for the canteen, but this time, it was empty.

Aramis dropped the empty bottle and sighed, his head falling to his hands. The frustration was deep. He had done all he could, the wounds were dressed, Porthos revived, but still, it wasn't enough. Nothing was enough in this blasted heat. Without water, Porthos would slip back into unconsciousness and this time, his body already overtaxed, they might not get him back.

Aramis couldn't understand why Athos and D'Artagnan were not here yet. Surely D'Artagnan had returned with the provisions and the physician. Athos must have been able to recover after some hours in the shade and with two full canteens by his side. Something must have happened. Or perhaps they had turned back, believing as Aramis almost had, that there was no way Porthos could have strayed this far.

They needed water. Aramis had no choice, he would have to find some.

Decision made, Aramis started to stand, only to be knocked back to the ground with a wave of dizziness and nausea. He groaned and pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, trying to stop the spinning. He knew the signs, it was his turn to be brutalized by the sun. Aramis felt a hand at his arm.

" 'Mis," Porthos whispered, tugging ineffectually at his arm, "What?"

With a deep exhale, Aramis twisted to sit cross-legged facing Porthos. "We are out of water," he said quietly, "I'm going to be right back," he added, in the most reassuring tone he could muster.

"No," Porthos's word was almost a plea, "No."

"You need water," Aramis's tone was grave, "I'll be back soon."

"No," there was more strength in Porthos's voice this time. And anguish, "Don't leave. . . . Not again . . . can't do it again."

"Can't do what," Aramis asked, taking up his friend's hand and leaning closer.

"Can't keep . . . not alone," Porthos was having trouble making a sentence, "Waited for you . . . can't do it again." Aramis felt a lump rise in his throat. He didn't need any more words to understand that Porthos was trying to say he was afraid he would die if Aramis left him. Porthos's eyes were closed, his face distressed, and there was just enough moisture in his body for a single tear to slide from beneath his dark lashes.

"Alright, it's alright," Aramis whispered, gently wiping the lone tear from Porthos's cheek with the pad of his thumb. "I won't leave. We'll wait together."

* * *

"Aramis."

He heard his name from somewhere far away.

He ignored it.

"Aramis."

Persistent. But the darkness was good.

"Aramis, open your eyes." Something cool fluttered over his face. It was heaven. He opened his eyes. He blinked and squinted. It was too bright.

"Wait," the voice was familiar. So were the arms that slipped under his shoulders and lifted him from the ground. His head swam as he was rotated around and he moaned but someone shushed him. "Here you go," the voice said and the cool cloth was placed over his brow. He opened his eyes again, this time seeing a swath of blue fabric, but no piercing light stabbing into him. He was leaning back against something soft. Gentle hands held him steady. Athos.

Aramis let his head roll back against Athos's shoulder. It was too hard to raise it yet. He closed his eyes again. Athos left the cloth in place over his forehead, and put another damp cloth on his chest. It felt good. Aramis started to feel like he might not float away after all. He felt fuzzy, but he remembered.

"Porthos," Aramis said, surprised at how scratchy his voice was and how thick his tongue felt in his mouth.

"He's here," that was D'Artagnan's voice from further away, "I've got him. He's fine. Your stitching is lovely," and there was a smile in his voice. "

"Good," Aramis rasped. "Waited for you."

"Yes, we see that," Athos sounded slightly amused, "Can you try some water?" Aramis nodded his head and felt Athos shift his body into a slightly different position, supported by a knee at his back and an arm around his shoulder. Athos put the canteen in Aramis's hands. He clutched at it and raised it to his lips, but really it was Athos that did the work of holding it steady. Aramis took a deep swallow and felt the cool, wet trail of water line his throat slip through his body to settle in his stomach. He wanted another swallow, but Athos took the bottle away. Aramis couldn't help but let out a small moan. He felt Athos's chest rumble with a laugh.

"Not so fun when someone does that to you, is it?" Athos was teasing him. Aramis found a smile for him.

"No, no it's not," Aramis was glad to hear his own voice sound more normal in his ears, "How long?" he asked.

"We found you about six hours after you left us," Athos said, offering Aramis another sip of water, "We handed over Giraud and Marcus to the care of the physician and the soldiers from Toulouse. There are four more on their way here, with another cart. D'Artagnan and I rode ahead. Porthos got a lot further than we thought he could."

"We thought maybe you had turned around," D'Artagnan added from somewhere behind him, "Or gone off the road and that we had missed the signs."

"Thank God for that damned blue cloak," Athos chuckled, "No one but you would think to drag a winter cloak around in the middle of a drought and then, actually put it to good use. Made you easy to find in the end."

"Wasn't sure you would get far enough to see it," Aramis said softly, afraid to admit his own doubts. He felt Athos's arm tighten around his shoulders.

"There was no chance we wouldn't find you," he said softly, "I'd walk through Hell itself to bring you and Porthos home."

Aramis sighed and took another sip of water, a smile playing across his face. Hell stood no chance against Musketeers.


End file.
